


A Way Out

by necrosweater



Series: Little Sunshine [1]
Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, First Meetings, Gen, HalluciGen Inc, Recreational Drug Use, irresponsible alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:19:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8207740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrosweater/pseuds/necrosweater
Summary: An alternate first meeting for Sole and MacCready.What if MacCready hadn't yet left the Gunners at the beginning of the game, and instead of meeting him in the Third Rail, Sole comes across him trying to escape from HalluciGen, Inc.    An enraged scream comes from one of the corridors, and he looks up just in time to see one of the angry drugged gunners explode into a pile of fluorescent goo.  He’s pretty sure it was Sheena, but at this point there’s really no way to tell.  Her .44 lands frighteningly close to his hiding spot, and he hopes the scavenger is satisfied with all the rest of the shi- err… stuff they’ve already acquired.  A bit of the plasma-that-was-once-possibly-Sheena had landed on his hat, and he quickly tries to pat it off before the glow gives away his presence.  Lucy’s ghoul-shredded corpse lingers in his peripherals, pointing at him accusingly.  He shushes her desperately.  Doesn’t she know she’s going to give them away?





	1. Something Borrowed, Someone New

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the Fallout fandom, and the first thing I've written in actual years, so please be gentle. I'm posting this unbeta'd, so if you come across any embarrassingly glaring mistakes please let me know on tumblr @necrosweater!
> 
> I had this idea when I ran across the heavily hallucinating gunner at the bottom of the stairs before the decontamination chamber. I hope you enjoy!

When they barge into the room, swinging their ominously glowing Super Sledge with wild abandon, MacCready barely makes it under a desk in time to escape their wrath. 

At first he just thinks they’re another one of the gas’s hallucinations, like Lucy, dripping in viscera and stirring up puffs of radioactive green mist every time the hammer lodges itself into another of his squadmates’ unfortunate skulls. They’ve got one of those patchwork bots that have been popping up around the ‘Wealth recently. The thing is big and vault suit blue, fitted out with a Shishkebab attachment that’s almost as scary as it’s owner. Mac watches as the pair slice through the remaining gunners in the room, counting on them taking their leave soon so he can get out from under this gosh-darned desk and out of this gosh-darned gas and most importantly out of this GOSH-DARNED DEATHTRAP of a building full of the dead and those who shouldn’t be there, staring at him with her dead, glassy eyes.

Unfortunately, as usual, life has other plans. Once his cohorts are presumed dead, either smashed to a twitching pulp or uh, separated from their lives in some other fashion, the person slings the sledge back across their back and begins the unpleasant task of looting the corpses. Meanwhile, the robot putters around the room on its Mr. Handy thruster, picking up scrap that’s out of human reach. At least the clicks and whooshes of the thruster mostly cover the sounds of MacCready’s shifting as he tries to wedge himself further into his cover, ignoring Lucy’s sounds of discomfort. He know’s she’s not there. In any case, the newcomer doesn’t seem to notice either of them, digging through the pockets of the dead and surrounding trash, humming occasionally and stuffing found treasures into their bulging pack. How they manage to fit anything in there is beyond him, seeing as it’s already full to the brim. 

An enraged scream comes from one of the corridors, and he looks up just in time to see one of the angry drugged gunners explode into a pile of fluorescent goo. He’s pretty sure it was Sheena, but at this point there’s really no way to tell. Her .44 lands frighteningly close to his hiding spot, and he hopes the scavenger is satisfied with all the rest of the shi- err… stuff they’ve already acquired. A bit of the plasma-that-was-once-possibly-Sheena had landed on his hat, and he quickly tries to pat it off before the glow gives away his presence. Lucy’s ghoul-shredded corpse lingers in his peripherals, pointing at him accusingly. He shushes her desperately. Doesn’t she know she’s going to give them away?

“Make sure not to leave anything useful behind, ma’am!” The bot’s voice is surprisingly chipper, and much too close for comfort. MacCready tries to keep his breathing quiet, thankful that the wet bandana does a better job of muffling sound than it does keeping out the gas that’s addling his brain. His good luck ends with this, as the intruder - a woman, if the bot can be trusted - crouches down to grab the .44. Her gas mask tilts slightly and though she gives no reaction he can tell he’s been made. 

“No. Sudden. Moves.” Her words are clipped, the .44 points in his face and he groans inwardly. He puts his hands out in what he hopes is a non-threatening gesture. “You’re going to want to slowly come out from under there and tell me what the flying fuck is going on in here, and you’re going to keep your hands where I can see them if you want to keep them.” She motions with the hand not holding the pistol, and her robot companion drifts closer, brandishing it’s pants shi-er-crappingly terrifying fire-sword. Mac swallows drily, coughing a bit on the gas that slips past his makeshift and mostly useless mask. 

“H-hey lady, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to not get killed, here. They’re… they’re fu-er-frickin’ nuts! Killing everyone. Would you believe I just got stuck in here with them?” She doesn’t look very convinced. He rambles on. “Okay, so I was with them, but I didn’t want to be! I’ve been looking for a way out since I joined, worst decision of my life. Lucy, baby, please… Stop looking at me like that?” This part is directed at his wife, whose form keeps flickering between a rotting, gnawed on corpse and how he knew her, when she was alive. She’s giving him that face, the one she used to make all the time when he’d lie about where something came from and he knew she knew he was lying. He scrubs his hands over his face and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. This isn’t going well. 

“Kid.” Her grip on the pistol loosens a bit, but since she’s using it to beckon for him to come out from under the desk, he decides to keep his disdain at being called kid to himself for the moment and shakily tries to comply. Lucy won’t stop staring at him. His knees threaten to buckle under the weight of her gaze. “Uh, Ada… watch him. I think I’ve got something useful in my pack,” she says, finally dropping the pistol’s muzzle from its former target between his burning eyes. MacCready stays standing next to the desk, stance weaving a bit from nausea while doing his best to keep his hands up. The robot hovers menacingly with its laser attachment trained on him as the woman stoops down to dig around the bag of garbage she’s toting around with her. She finally pulls out a shapeless mass of material and throws it casually at MacCready, who catches it with a flinch. It’s a gas mask, not a good one like hers, but one of the creepy thrown together bag ones raiders wear. He figures it might be better than the wet rag he’s been using. She picks up the .44 again, and motions for him to put the mask on. He does, warily, and sucks in a few glorious breaths of slightly fresher air. Lucy seems a little less condemning with her dead eyes. 

“Why are you helping me,” he asks. He has a right to be suspicious, if you ask him. Nothing in the wastes comes free.

“You’re going to help me find something I need in here, since you’re the only person I’ve run into who hasn’t taken a potshot at me, or run away screaming, or… well, I can’t say you weren’t talking to someone who wasn’t here, but you seem to be more or less lucid.” Mac nods along slowly, trying to seem as unaffected by the fog as possible, which is easier now that he’s got an actual breathing apparatus. “You seem to want to get out of here just as much as I do. Once we get out I’ve got a few more questions for you, but I’d rather not spend too much longer in this gas. If you’re willing to cooperate, I’m willing to give you a chance.” He can cooperate, he can be the most cooperative he’s ever been in his short, admittedly argumentative life. He shows her his hands even more visibly and non-threateningly than before in a display of this willingness to be cool. The robot keeps its weapons on him as the woman pats him down, clinically confiscating his combat knife, his rifle and even the switchblade he always keeps in his boot with the same kind of cold detachment she’d been using while looting the corpses. 

After she’s sure she’s found all of his weapons (she’s wrong, she missed the almost pathetically tiny sliver of a knife hanging under his shirt, and his gloves have little bits of sharp metal sewn into the knuckles, a gift from Lucy. The real Lucy, not the one who still won’t stop judging him from the corner of his vision) she cuffs his hands in front of him, adding his meager belongings to the already impossibly full pack. He watches them disappear mournfully, but without protest. The flicker of fire on the bot’s Shishkebab arm a reminder that even though she’s keeping him alive for the moment, she could easily change her mind. What seems like an eternity or two later, the group makes its uneasy way into the hallway, crouched and sneaking through the ill-lit space. It’s mostly quiet and slow work, Ada floating along in front, Mac stumbling after, and the woman and her horrible hammer bringing up the rear. At some point they run into a pair of docked Protectrons and he’s mildly impressed when she effortlessly hacks into the terminal, reprogramming them to patrol the dilapidated halls. 

It’s while they’re in the Protectron room that he finally sees the color of the jumpsuit under the heavily patched and embroidered leather jacket. It's vault suit blue, well, where it's visible under all the straps and plates of her armor and oh yeah, the blood of her enemies. He’s thankful for the sack hood covering the way his jaw drops when he realizes who she is. The woman, she’s the one the annoying DJ from Diamond City Radio talks about. She’s the Vault Dweller. He supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised, there’s not many people willing to break into a crumbling death trap like HalluciGen without a dam-darn good reason. His squad of gunners had drawn the short straw, and none of them had been too awfully happy about spelunking through the creepy old labs. MacCready wondered how many, if anyone at all, had managed to escape. From the way the screams and gunfire had stopped shortly before the Vault Dweller’s appearance, he doubted the number was very high.

“So,” he says, breaking the relative silence. “What are we looking for, anyway?” The woman remains silent, poking through the never-ending piles of trash littering the lab passively, ignoring his comment. “Do you even know?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring. You don’t know. Okay, well, if you figure it out make sure to let me know so I can help you dig through that… whatever it is you’re touching, instead of sitting here choking on my own bad luck.” He knows he’s rambling, but he can’t stop. It’s like the gas has taken out the distance between his brain and his chapped lips, and anything at all could come pouring out. It’s almost enough to make him start laughing hysterically, and a moment later he realizes he is. The woman’s mask is pointed at him again, as is the slightly more worrisome laser face of the bot. The thought of being obliterated by an Assaultron’s face doesn’t help him to stop laughing like it should. 

“Hey, kid,” she snaps her fingers in front of his mask. “You alright in there? You with me?” 

Mac blinks, still irritated at being called kid, and tries to remember how to breathe. He nods. They keep moving, and he can still feel the bullseye on his back.


	2. Tiny Little World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac and his new companions continue on their merry way through HalluciGen, slowed by the Sole Survivor's need to pick up literally everything that isn't screwed down.

It feels like they’ve been stumbling around in the halls forever, and the darkness of the cluttered corridors isn’t doing much to cover the tension between the group members. MacCready can tell his new companions are wary of him. He can even see where they’re coming from! They’re holed up in a building with a squad of hopped up Gunners, and their brand new buddy is a slightly hopped up, slightly unhinged hopeful-former-Gunner. Okay, that was way too many hyphens, but… God, he hopes he’ll make it to being a former Gunner. Does anyone else think it’s way too quiet in here?

“So why do you have to pick up all this shhhh..crap… scrap anyway?” 

“Nice save, No-Swear Nancy.”

“That’s not my name. I have one of those, you know.”

“And I told you I don’t want to know it. We don’t exchange names. I get what I’m looking for, you get away from the Gunners, we never have to come back to this hell hole and with any luck never have to see each other again.” 

Well. That’s not exactly unexpected, but also not exactly what he’s been hoping to hear. He knows they’ve just met. He isn’t expecting to be buddy-buddy with this total stranger. He’s only heard vague things about the Vault Dweller on the radio, but none of Travis’ anxious ramblings seem to mesh with what he’s seen so far from this woman. Especially not his still being alive. If he were to go off of what he’d heard off DCR, he’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not to mention the other blade in his back. She’s not exactly known for her leniency when it comes to the scum of the Wasteland, and he’s not under any false pretense of where he stands. He only hopes he can change her mind about him before they leave the building, or he’s sure he’ll get to be much more acquainted with her Super Sledge than he cares to be. 

He shakes himself loose from his thoughts and takes a look at the woman in question. As expected, she’s shuffling around the corners of the room to better look at the trash pushed to the edges. He’s still not able to wrap his head around her hoarding habits. At the moment, she’s trying to figure out where to fit a desk fan she’s swiped from the top of a filing cabinet. It’s not seeming to fit in her pack and he’s expecting her to just give up on it, but she digs a wrench out from one of the pockets and proceeds to dismantle the fan, stashing the screws in a small pocket on the back of her glove, and exerting a worrying amount of strength in pushing the remaining scrap down the sides of the bag. The entire display is a baffling mix of impressive and stupidly stubborn.

“You never answered my question,” he says. What, it’s true. 

“Oh, about the junk?” He’s not sure why she looks surprised that he actually wanted to know. Her voice takes on a kind of sarcastically whimsical sing-songy tone. “I guess you could just say I’m kind of into upcycling and arts and crafts.”

He doesn’t really know what half of that meant.

They continue into one of the collapsed ceiling panels that are all over the rotting building, accompanied by nothing but their quiet footsteps and the hissing of Ada’s Mr. Handy thruster since Mac couldn’t think of a comeback to her upcycling comment. They seem to have decided he’s not going to attack the Vaultie, or maybe they just don’t think he’s a threat now that he’s unarmed and handcuffed, and the woman leads the way now, with her freaky robot companion keeping watch on him. On second thought, maybe they don’t trust him, maybe Ada’s just better at making sure he doesn’t make any sudden moves. In any case, this gives him a bit more time to observe his new companion. Whenever they pass under one of the working bulbs of the old building’s lights he catches a glimpse of the blue of her jumpsuit. There’s something reflective above her pack as well, it looks almost like glass. 

“Oh, you looking at my oxygen tank?” Shit, she noticed him watching. Damn these sack hoods… they hide his stupid facial expressions when she notices him doing stupid stuff, but the goggles built in make it a little obvious which direction his eyes are looking. He decides not to bother lying.

“Is that what that glass case on your back is? I just saw it in the light,” he says.

“I told you I was into crafts,” she says. He can’t be certain because of the respirator on the mask, but she sounds like she’s smiling. She stops and drops her bag with a small crash before taking a bit more care to reach behind her head and pop the slim translucent case out of the leather straps that were holding it in place. A few tubes are connected to some weird looking filters on the case, and run all the way up to her respirator. It almost looks like it’s holding one of those fake plants that are commonly found in offices. He knows she’s a hoarder, but that’s a little extreme. 

“Uh, not trying to tick you off by questioning, boss, but why are you hauling that around? Looks like worthless junk to me.”

“Maybe it’s the lighting in here,” she says, flicking on the clean light of her Pip-Boy. Now he can see that it’s obviously not a fake plant, but it’s much more green than any real plant life he’s ever seen anywhere in the Wasteland. It’s vibrant, but not the sickly green of glowing fungi, or the greenish yellow of the Children of Atom’s bottled radiation. “Back when I was a kid, my Babcia used to keep a little glass pod on her shelf with this tiny red plant and these little creatures sealed inside. I used to take it down and look at it every time I visited. She used to tell me it was sealed, and you never had to feed them or anything, they would just go on living in this tiny little world forever.” She turns the case this way and that, illuminating the leaves with her light. “I visited a… vault… that had some pretty impressive technology. I told some of the scientists that lived there about my Babcia’s little world, and the next time I visited he gave me this. I’m not sure if it would last forever, but as long as the plants keep producing clean air, it’s good enough for me.” 

“Huh. That’s pretty cool, actually,” he says, surprised. “I’ve never seen plants that kind of green before.” 

“Yeah, it’s one of my prized possessions,” her voice takes on a faraway tone for a second, before she slips the case back into its bindings and slings the pack back over her shoulders with a grunt. “Well, time to get a move on.”

They continue moving through the building, not running into many more of the Gunners, and those they did run into she gave a warning to, only fighting when they proved to be completely beyond reasoning. Even then, she took most of them out quickly, practiced headshots and brutally efficient blows with her terrifying hammer. Except for one of the more unfortunate of his old companions, who was sitting at the base of the stairs and calling out to Davey, who Mac knows was attacked and killed by a Radscorpion months ago. The Vault Dweller tried initiating conversation with him several times, but she didn’t have much luck. In the end she pulled out another one of the sack hoods and managed to wrangle his head into it, but not until he’d screamed and struggled pitifully, smacking his skull against the wall and knocking himself out. Mac watched the Vault Dweller leave a few cans of purified water next to him, a quizzical expression on his face as she scrawls out a quick note saying “Good luck. If you make it out of here, the Minutemen are always hiring. -MC, General” and set it on top of the cans.  
“You know he might not even be able to read,” Mac points out

“Maybe if he makes it out, he’ll change his ways a bit,” she says, shrugging. He’s having a hard time believing this generous pack rat is the same fearsome warrior depicted by Diamond City Radio. If he hadn’t seen first hand the destructive manner in which she could swing that Super Sledge, he’d think she was a different Vaultie altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! It doesn't really feel like it went anywhere, or that it ended where it should have, but I needed to post something or I felt like I'd never get it out there! I think there'll be one more chapter in this one to tie it up, and then you might have noticed I started a collection called "Little Sunshine" that this is the first part of! My sosu has really grown on me since I've been playing, and I've decided to make a small series with stories about her and her companions. Most of them will probably be slice of life, but there'll definitely be a few angst bombs lobbed in there as well. This is me we're talking about! 
> 
> Thanks for reading this measly little chapter, and stay tuned for more. Thanks for the comments and kudos, I didn't really expect to get any on this random little fic!
> 
> If you want a visual aid of what the Sosu's neato gasmask looks like, I reblogged a picture of its inspiration over at my tumblr, necrosweater.tumblr.com!


	3. Who Needs Plans Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude from a different perspective. Things start to look up for MacCready, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.

When they finally make it outside, the kid can’t hurry fast enough to rip the sack hood off of his head and take a few deep breaths of the not-quite-fresh Commonwealth air. It’s going to be dark soon, but there’s next to no amount of caps that could keep Mickey near that building one second longer. She sighs contentedly and pushes her goggles up to her forehead, bringing up the map on her Pip-Boy, and plans to head back to Diamond City for the night. She’ll figure out what to do with her latest stray in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. They follow the crumbling streets along the waterside cautiously for a while, silent except for the comfortingly familiar wheezing of Ada’s thruster, and the kid’s occasional grumbling. They’ve sneaked their way past the ruins of the Boston Public Library before she realizes she never gave the kid his stuff back. Christmas, she’s still got him in handcuffs.

“Hey,” she says abruptly as they pass the old Police Precinct, breaking the silence and surprising him a bit. “Now that we’re out of there, I guess I can give you back your shit.” He doesn’t say anything while she uncuffs him, which strikes her a bit odd after listening to him run his mouth for the majority of their time together, but takes his belongings back with a kind of subdued look on his face. As he slings the sniper rifle back over his shoulder, she realizes the expression he’s wearing is one that could be called “lost.” 

“Kid,” she starts, trailing off.

“Hmm?” He turns his head to look at her, a Grey Tortoise hanging from his mouth and a lighter halfway to his lips. He’s wearing this ridiculous hat now that he’s rid of the sack hood. It reminds her of something her Natty would have worn back when they’d first met, before she raided his closet and got her hands on his terrible fashion sense and molded it into something less embarrassing to be seen with. Not much of that left in the Commonwealth 200 years after the war. Fashion sense, that is. 

“You got a plan? After we part ways?” she’s not surprised when he hesitates, quirking his eyebrow and inhaling a puff of stale smoke. He looks like he’s thinking of something to say.

“I’ll… I’ll figure something out.” He’s still got the lost look on his face, and his eyes aren’t looking at anything. “Is this it?” She thinks he doesn’t look ready. She knows she can’t just let him wander off. Messed up kid, freshly deserting from the Gunners, he won’t make it a day before he ends up in a gutter with a bullet or ten in his body.

“Not yet. I’m gonna help you get back on your feet.”

“No fu-err-frickin’ way, absolutely not! You’ve already done enough, I can’t… owe you that much.” 

“Kid,” her voice takes on the most maternal tone she can produce, with what little time she’d had to practice it. “I didn’t just spend precious time out of my day getting you out of that goddamn death trap to let you wander off and die in the ruins. I don’t want to hear anything about owing me.” He looks like he’s going to try to keep arguing, but she raises one eyebrow and puts a hand on her hip, tapping one heavily booted foot. “If it’s the only way I can convince you then just think of it this way; I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for my own peace of mind. I can’t let that happen.”

“Lady,” he sighs heavily. “I get what you’re trying to do but I’m not just some kid,” he says, irritated, but obviously trying to school his voice so she can’t accuse him of whining. “In the Wasteland, you grow up fast. I’ve been shooting this gun since I was smaller than a Mutfruit plant. I know what’s out there, and you don’t have to look after me.” 

“Alright. Let’s make a deal. I’ve got a place in Diamond City, I’m going to go there for the night. If you want, you can come with me and stay the night. We’ll talk about tomorrow once we get there. If you don’t want to stay with me, you can stay at the Dugout, or find somewhere to sleep inside the city, but keep in mind that the Gunners are going to have it out for you if they find out what you did.” The kid seems to take this into consideration, and she can see the argumentative spark leave his posture. “C’mon kid, let me help you. We can talk about this later, after a nice hot bowl of noodles.”

He puffs angrily on his cigarette, but shifts his gun on his shoulder and takes a deep breath, throwing the last of the butt on the ground before scuffing it out aggressively. 

“Ugh, fine,” he says it tiredly, all the fight gone from his voice. “One night. But I’ll make this up to you, I swear on my own rifle.” He looks at her, his brows furrowed. “Alright! I agreed, now can we go? It’s getting dark, let’s get a freakin’ move on.”

Mickey smiles, the thrill of victory sweet. The rest of the way to Diamond City’s gates, her pack feels half as heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a Chapter 2 1/2. I wanted to throw this little bit of Mickey's perspective in to show what she thinks of MacCready, and give you guys a little idea of how she works. It's also a little bit of an apology for how long Chapter 2 took, sorry about that. Next chapter will be back to Mac.


	4. Down Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonists arrive at Home Plate and take a load off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another short mini-chapter to keep myself posting stuff! I haven't written in forever, so this is pretty fun. Don't forget to leave some feedback, and don't forget you can message me on tumblr if you have any prompts or find anything embarrassingly off.

He followed her back to her place in Diamond City, making it there just before nightfall. It was kind of surreal seeing her around other people, well, people she wasn’t aiming to kill. They’d made their way through the gates, stopping once at the old ticket sales booth where some security guy was keeping watch; she took an issue of Grognak out and threw it at him, saying she already had a copy of that issue before continuing on up the stairs into the city. She seemed to have something similar to say or do for everyone she passed, save one guard wearing sunglasses who she just lifted a few fingers to in a casual half-assed salute. 

The three of them finally arrive at a door just past Power Noodles, which MacCready stares at wistfully before following the woman inside. She drops her entire bag of scrap next to a table and finally takes off her respirator and goggles combo, revealing her face for the first time. She’s got a stripe of red paint across her nose that’s sort of smudged, and an indented line from all the things she’s been wearing on her face for the past hours. Her hair is dark, messily cropped along the right temple and haphazardly piled into a knot on top of her head. It looks like she’s wearing some sort of eyeliner, but most of it is smudged off of one eye. There’s a long scar running over her nose and loosely following the red line of paint across one cheek. Her lips are puffy, not in an attractive way, but like she’s recently been decked in the mouth. From the split on the left of her bottom lip he’d guess that’s not far off.

Her house is… messy. Even messier than her appearance under the mask. In fact, half of it looks like she’s just moved in. There’s a couch made of faded red fabric next to a workbench, and she’s somehow pulled a set of patio furniture inside to one corner, which is mostly covered in empty bottles. The rest of the room is full of… junk. There are boxes stacked crookedly on top of each other, and a few tables where it looks like she’s kind of separated things into piles, but heck if he can figure out what any of the sorting requirements could be. The only other constant is the flicker of rope lights strung chaotically about the ceilings. He realizes she’s talking.

“... I’d say you’re going to want to head off to Goodneighbor, that’ll be your best shot at finding a decent source of caps. I’ve got an in with the mayor. Just tell Hancock Mick sent you, and he’ll get you set up somewhere-”

“-That’s your name,” he interjects, watching her eyebrow raise and the corner of her mouth quirk up. “Thought we weren’t sharing those.” 

“Yeah, that plan kind of went out the window the second you agreed to follow me. I figured it’d be best not to get too awfully attached, in case you died before we got out. Or tried to kill me. It’s never fun having to gank someone you’ve been traveling with, but sometimes the only way to solve something is a good ol’ whack with the ‘Sledge, y’know?” She cracks a smile, wincing a bit when the scab on her lip splits open slightly. She peels off her gloves, and offers Mac a hand. “Now though, I think it’s past time for proper introductions. Michalina Zdunowski Cochran, but anyone who isn’t my mother or my Great-aunt Salomea calls me Mickey.” 

“Call me MacCready.” He takes the offered hand hesitantly, and she shakes it in what could be construed as aggressively. 

“The robot’s Ada, but you might have picked that up already. I’m going to go slip into something a bit more comfortable-” she wiggles her eyebrows impressively, the scab straining against the wideness of her grin “-upstairs, this suit should probably be aired out for at least a year… stay down here and don’t try any peeping shit if you know what’s good for you. There’s some snacks and stuff on that table if you want anything.” 

And with that, she’s disappeared up the rickety steps along the wall, thumping around upstairs. He takes her up on the offer of food; if he’s ever well off enough to turn down a snack when it’s suggested, he’ll be a very lucky man. After rummaging through the pile on the table for a few moments, he settles on a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes that doesn’t look like it’s been crushed too badly, grabs a bottle of some sort of unfamiliar drink called Vim! and settles himself gingerly on the couch. Ada the Friendly Neighborhood Assaultron is making herself busy sorting through the things in her own pack, and he takes a moment to watch her. 

Unlike the stacks of scrap in the rest of the room, Ada’s seemingly got some sort of agenda. Weapons and ammo go to one side of the table, clothing goes to another, glass gets thrown in a tub to the side, metal of various types goes into their own neatly separated piles. Every ten items or so gets tossed into a separate duffel bag, but MacCready can’t seem to figure out how she’s picking out what goes there. He sips the bottle of Vim! and makes a face briefly at the flavoring before deciding that while it’s different, that doesn’t make it bad. Not as good as an ice cold Nuka, but hey. The sound of a door creaking and the unmistakable sound of someone descending a ladder shakes him out of his thoughts, and a few seconds later Mickey calls for him to come up the stairs.

The first thing he notices is that her arms, now bare to the shoulder are absolutely covered in tattoos. Not the kind of sparse stick-n-pokes commonly found on raider-types, but completely filled, elegantly placed swirls of ink stretching across most of the flesh of her exposed arms. He only has time to focus on a few before they’re gone again, hidden under the worn out letterman jacket she pulls on. She’s washed her hair and her face is scrubbed freshly pink, some sort of salve covering the gash on her lip. She throws something at him. He catches it and finds it’s a can of purified water and a mostly-clean rag. 

“Alright, I don’t have access to much of a bathroom here, but there are probably some clean clothes in the trunk here that should fit you, and a wet rag could only improve upon the levels of dirt that are smeared across your face right now. Leave your old clothes on the trunk and Ada can wash them while we get some grub.” He looks at her weirdly, still not entirely sure he trusts her enough to get naked and vulnerable while she’s in the same space as he is. She seems to mistake this for some other worry, or ignores him and stomps gracefully down the stairs, talking over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, she won’t be able to do as good a job as a well programmed Mr. Handy, but I promise she won’t torch them while we’re gone. Hurry up. I’m absolutely faaamished.” 

When he comes down, she’s sorting through the scavenged items she picked up in HalluciGen. Once she sees he’s ready she grabs the bag full of rejected scraps and makes a dramatic waving gesture to the door. 

“After you.”


	5. Most Important Meal of the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac gets to know a little more about Mickey, and a new opportunity presents itself.

The kid- MacCready, he’d said his name was- is possibly the most impolite eater Mickey’s ever had the displeasure of observing. She watches, her top lip raised slightly on the right side as he ravenously inhales his bowl of noodles before she’s even finished handing the caps over to Takahashi, slurping the broth down almost like he’s worried it won’t be there the next breath and scooping the remains out with his fingers before he licks them clean. She clears her throat and arches one thick eyebrow at him when he’s done, not more than 30 seconds after she passed him the bowl. A little more color rises in his already ruddy cheeks when he realizes she hasn’t even touched her food yet, and she doesn’t even blink as she orders him a second bowl. 

“Take it easy, Mac- Can I call you Mac?” she asks as she hands it to him. “Try to make this one last at least a full minute.” She eyes him a bit as he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You act like you haven’t eaten in days- wait, please tell me you’ve eaten in the last few days.”

“Uh, yeah… I uh, I ate a couple of Fancy Lads back at your place, but… it’s been a while.” His response is hesitant. “Not quite sure how long we were stuck back in that shi-err-craphole, but the squad was running a little low on rations that day, so it’s… yeah. It’s been a while.” 

“Do you think you need another bowl? I’ve got a few more caps to spare.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not,” his response comes much more quickly this time. “Nuh uh, I told you I don’t like debt, and at this point I feel like I’m already going to have to help you with at least one big favor before I’ll be off the hook.” 

Mickey sighs, swirling her fork around in the noodles absently. She’s not sure how to get it through to him that she’s not gonna try to cash in any favors from him. His favor to her will be to survive long enough to get to Goodneighbor, take a few jobs that’ll help people, hopefully make the world a slightly less shitty place. “Listen, kid. I already told you, ya don’t owe me anything.” 

“Lady, I heard you the first time, but you know how it is out here, nothing in this dump comes free.” He waits until she’s almost done with her bowl to inhale the remains of his second. “So you ever need anything from Ol’ MacCready, you just let me know, and I’ll think about waiving the 300 cap fee.” He grins in what she assumes he thinks is smooth, but the effect is kind of ruined by his less than stellar dental state. 

“300 caps? For me, the badass that just saved your life? That’s a little high, bub.” She pauses thoughtfully, decides to throw in some shameless self promotion. “You could y’know… think about joining the Minutemen if nothing else. Always openings there.” 

“Those squares still kicking around? Thought we- er- the Gunners wiped them out in Quincy.... then again I guess I did hear about some new leader taking over, whipping them into shape.” MacCready’s eyes widen as she smirks at him, and she sees the realization hit. “No fu-er- _frickin_ ’ way! That’s you?” 

Mickey just barely lets the corner of her mouth raise a bit higher, and wiggles her eyebrow again. “Not what you were expecting from… what did you call them?” She raises her hands to put the words in fingerquotes, “the leader of ‘Those Squares?’”

“I heard them talking about someone on the radio, but I figured it had to be someone else; you don’t really, uh, fit the picture that shitty DJ puts out there, y’know?” The kid looks embarrassed again, looking at his noodles instead of her. 

“Okay, so the Minutemen aren’t really for you. Knock it down to 200 and I’ll think about it.” 

“250.” Now that they’re talking money again, MacCready’s awkwardness is mostly gone, replaced by an almost cold, shrewd look.

“150.” 

“Fine. 200.”

“Whatever, Mac. We’ll talk about this if it ever comes time.” She chuckles a little, setting her bowl back on the counter for the bot to pick up. A figure in a gas mask is sitting on the other side of the Power Noodles stand. Mickey rolls her shoulders a bit and cracks her neck, shakes her head in the universal sign for _no, you idiot_ and hopes no one else sees. “I’ve got some uh, business to attend to before it gets too awful late. Feel free to go back to Home Plate if you want, or wander around Diamond City for a while, I don’t really care. If you want to crash on the couch downstairs, be my guest, I told Ada to let you in.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “But just know that if you touch anything that isn’t junk food, I’ll know.” 

“Alright, _General_.” He gives her a messy, half-assed salute, which makes her snort. Delicately, of course.

She waits for the kid to wander off before she makes her way over to the person on the other side of the stand. “Nice duds, Bobbi. Sure this is a good place to meet?” 

The figure grunts, raspy. “Can’t exactly come strollin’ into Diamond City with my mug, now can I?” Mickey has to fight the urge to sigh, Bobbi’s flair for the dramatic is a little over the top sometimes. She’s currently wearing a full face gas mask, not looking shady at all. “People like me ain’t allowed ‘round here, you know that.”

“Couldn’t you have worn like, a helmet, or something? The mask just looks a lil’ sus, Bob. Anyway, whatddya need me to do?”

“I need you to get someone out of a bit of a sticky situation. My tech guy, he’s uh… he’s a little locked up right now. So I need you to go down to the Diamond City Security Office, and get him out. I don’t care how you do it, pick the lock, find a key, bribe a guard, maybe. Put on a little something nice, show off some of that pretty smooth skin you’re so lucky to have and he’ll be out before you know it.”

“What exactly are we doing, that I’ve gotta be flirting with these knuckleheads and breaking your boy outta jail?” She doesn’t like how sketchy this feels. “I’m not sure this is something I’m actually interested in, pal. I’m the General of the Minutemen, not some wasteland loser you can talk into your shady games.” She also used to be a lawyer, but unless Bobbi’s one of those pre-war ghouls, she probably won’t know what that means. Not like there’s any organized government left around here, anyway. 

“Alright,” the answer comes, begrudgingly. Mickey feels a small sense of accomplishment. “I guess I’d have to tell you sooner or later, anyway. Let’s get down to business. That big wall of glass looming over Diamond City is the Mayor’s office. Most people don’t know it, but there’s a strongroom buried beneath. Mayor’s just sitting on top of it. And that’s our target.” Mickey grunts disapprovingly at the mention of that asshole. Wouldn’t help her find her son, totally brushed her off. “The guy has it coming if you ask me. With how he treats my kind, maybe he deserves worse.” 

“So this is a Robin Hood type situation, steal from the fat cats, and then…?” 

“Oh, I’ll be keeping my part of the caps. They’re my primary motivation, of course. But if I get to take them from a bigot, that’s good enough for me. So, what say you we make this party a little bigger? Go get my tech guy, I already told you where he is. Name’s Mel. Nice kid, good with robots. You in?”

Mickey sits for a moment, thinking. On the one hand, Bobbi is a sketchy lady, and she’s seen enough of those in her pre-war life to know that plans like these never used to go well for those involved. On the other, more vengeful and bitter hand, MacDonough was a prick to her, and she’d love to hit him where it hurts: his ego, and his bank account. She bites her lip, takes a breath, and makes up her mind. 

“Got yourself a deal, No-Nose. I’ll meet you back in Goodneighbor.”

*** 

A while later, Mac finds himself sitting in Mickey’s downstairs apartment, looking around her messy space and wondering how on earth she would know if he moved anything. He decides not to push his luck, and leaves everything where it is. He imagines she’s got her ways. Plus, that creepy robot is still floating around somewhere, it’s Mister Handy frame groaning and creaking occasionally. He’s about to get up and take a walk out to the bar he’d seen on his short walk around the city, when the door flies open, and his hostess comes barging in. She does a double take when she sees him and flashes that grin that makes her split lip pull again.

“Mac, buddy, almost didn’t think I’d see you here. Change of plans, I’ll be going to Goodneighbor in the early morning, so I can _accompany_ you if you’d like.” She’s flouncing up the stairs, throwing her letterman jacket on the couch next to him on her way up. 

He stands up and goes to the foot of the stairs. “We going now?” 

Mickey pokes her head over the half wall she’s got going to block the view of her sleeping quarters. He’s kind of glad it’s there, seeing as she’s pretty shamelessly not wearing a shirt, and her posture is just barely censoring her. He’s pretty sure he’s not ready for that kind of portrait of his new… _friend_? Potential boss? Savior from chem induced doom? Whatever they are, it’s not that kind of a relationship. 

“ _I’m_ going somewhere now, but it’s not Goodneighbor, and unless you decide to tag along free of charge, you’re staying right here, bud. I’m not ready to cash in my favor with you quite yet.” She comes around the corner wearing a sequined red evening gown, a man’s suit jacket draped over her arm. She’s wearing a pair of nude tights, and his eyes definitely don’t drag up them from her kitten heeled shoes to the hem of her skirt. Nope. Her arms are exposed though, and he gets a chance to take a look at some of her tattoos that he hadn’t been able to see before. 

The images on her arms range from a patch of flowers on her left forearm with “ZDUNOWSKI” inked across the top (he remembers her saying that was part of her name, he’s pretty sure) with a frog sitting on a branch below that, to the Nuka Cola Girl on her right bicep. The designs on both arms stretch all the way down to her hands, one covered with some sort of stag that must have been around pre-war (it’s only got one head), and the other blossoming with a beautiful yellow flower. Her last name is spelled out across her knuckles, with what looks like a stylized diamond and a plain black band tattooed across the ring finger. There’s a series of numbers etched into the stretch between her nail bed and the first knuckle, but he has no idea what they could possibly mean.

“My husband was a tattoo artist.” Shi-er… crap! She’s caught him looking. At least she doesn’t sound too angry. “He died, a while back. It gets kind of hard to look at them now.” A pause. “Well, I’ve got to go. Shouldn’t take too long, but you can go ahead and crash on that couch or something. If you’re coming with me, you’ll want to go to bed early. I’ll be back, ta!” Before he’s able to formulate a response, she’s down the stairs and out the door.

***

Mickey walks briskly down the crowded street, pausing to check her lipstick application in a foggy compact before stuffing it back in her bra. She was kind of surprised to find lipstick was still around, 200 years after the end of the world, but it certainly helps up her seduction game. She rubs her lips together and rolls her shoulders, putting on her best bedroom eyes before opening the door to the security office and sauntering her way down the dank hallway.

Great. A locker room. Sitting in the middle of the first room is a cage, occupied by a scruffy looking guy. _This must be Mel._ He looks up at her arrival and whistles lowly. Mickey rolls her eyes and tosses her hair a bit, before sidling up to one of the nearest guards. 

“‘Scuse me, babe,” she purrs, pulling the suit jacket slightly back farther off her chest. “Where’s a nice girl like me go to get her friend outta lockup?” 

Oh god, that was horrible. She hasn’t flirted in over 200 years. It doesn’t seem to have mattered, seeing as he flushes slightly behind his sunglasses and goes to unlock the door after stammering something she couldn’t quite hear.

Well. That was easy. 

“You must be Mel,” she keeps the sultry tone until they get out of the office before dropping it quickly. “Bobbi sent me.” 

“Oh, you’re Bobbi’s new toy? She couldn’t have waited like, a day? It’s not like I was here for a lifetime sentence.” 

Mickey bristles a bit at the implication of being under Bobbi’s thumb. “I’m doing her a favor, seeing as she said what we’re up to will be a pin in MacDonough’s ass. I’m no one’s _toy_.” 

“Woah, okay, didn’t mean to offend.” The new guy’s eyebrows go up. “Nice get up, by the way.”

“Thanks.Thought I’d have to flirt a lot harder than that, plus it’s kind of fun to dress up. I’m Mickey, by the way. I’ll let the boss fill you in on the details. See you at her place, I guess?” 

“Yeah, probably best not to keep her waiting. I’m gonna catch a room at the Dugout and head out first thing in the morning. See you there.” 

Mel heads off, leaving Mickey by herself. She decides to take an early night, and sneaks in the upper door, so as to not wake up her new companion. Ada is hovering in the corner, and greets her with a “Hello ma’am!” 

“Hey, Ada, I’m going to bed, our friend still here?”

“The Gunner is sleeping on the couch,” the robot says cheerfully, a little louder than Mickey would have hoped, if he really was sleeping. 

She yawns, grabbing a stained rag off the nightstand and wiping her lipstick off, wincing as she scrubs a bit too hard at her split lip. “Alright, wake me up by 5, if you would. We’re going to want an early start tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a little longer than I originally planned, but it's going to lead nicely into the next installment in the Little Sunshine series. Speaking of, I started a second story in this series. It's called Bury Me With It, and it's about Mickey's first few days in the brave new world. The first chapter's out now, check it out!


	6. Overpass Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on the road, again... Mac's ready to be... not on the road with Mickey, again.  
> Now with 200% more mention of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes!

The robot had woken them up at an ungodly hour. No matter how light a sleeper he was, MacCready couldn’t find it in him to appreciate early mornings. Man just wasn’t meant to be out and about before the safety of the sun could get a chance to light the path, stealth be da-rned. Unfortunately, Mickey didn’t seem to agree. Sure, she was yawning up a storm, and had choked down a startling amount of irradiated instant coffee with a rather disturbing level of enthusiasm before they’d left Home Plate. Mac was starting to wish he’d taken up the offer to have some, but from the way she’d twitched a little and shaken her head like someone would right after making the unfortunate choice of accepting a shot of bad vodka, he’d been a bit wary of her tastes. She’d just laughed off his worried look and sang something weird about sugar pills and rattling down a street. Whatever that meant. _That’s the good stuff, my ass,_ he thought derisively. 

At the moment, they were picking their way across the ruins of the city, on their way to Goodneighbor. Ada had been sent off back to one of Mickey’s settlements, laden with what seemed to be the usual amount of junk. Mickey herself seemed pretty carefree, whistling an upbeat tune while drumming her fingers along the shaft of her Super Sledge, which was freshly covered in Super Mutant blood. The cheerful way she took out her enemies still hadn’t ceased to make him slightly uncomfortable. Just because you had to kill things to live out here didn’t mean you had to take so much _joy_ in it. He didn’t want to say anything to her, but something about that just… wasn’t right. Neither was the way she’d casually dug through those gross meat bags, clapping her filthy hands like a kid being given a mutfruit when she found “goodies” inside. That was just… nasty. 

“Alright, buddy-boy,” she pipes up, shaking him out of his thoughts. She’d wiped her hand across her face, and gotten whatever vile cocktail of gore was in the mutant’s choice of decorations smeared from her right cheek to her left temple, almost criss-crossing the scar that ran from her nose down her opposite cheek. For someone who seemed to care so much about cleaning her clothes and washing up before turning in for the night, she wasted no time in covering herself in unpleasant substances. “I’d say from where we are now, if we don’t run into any major… uh, distractions, we should make it to Goodneighbor within a few hours. As much as I’d love to stop at the library,” she gazed wistfully at the wreckage of the Boston Public Library a few yards away, “now’s probably not the time.” 

After a melodramatic sigh and another wishful look at the library, they headed off again.

The two continued walking in silence for a while, or, well... Mac was silent, while his increasingly weird companion whistled and hummed and occasionally turned on the radio to sing along to whatever Travis Miles was playing at the moment. Her voice was nice, if a bit scratchy at times. Generally, she was on the right notes at the right time, and that seemed good enough for her. She was currently singing along to _Orange Colored Sky_ , bouncing on her heels and doing some sort of interpretive dance. MacCready was almost worried she was going to attract some bad attention, but he wasn’t about to mention anything. Not after last time. She’d thrown a rock at his head. “Let me fucking live, kid.” 

It had been a big rock. 

The sun is high in the sky when Mickey holds up a hand in warning. She flips her radio off, and saunters her way back to where MacCready had been trailing a few feet behind her, holding her finger to her lips and wiggling her eyebrows ridiculously. She points ahead of them, expression suddenly dropping into something darker. Her almost instant change in demeanor throws him slightly. In the day he’d known her, Mickey hadn’t ever arranged her face in any sort of expression he could fully describe as serious, but there wasn’t a drop of humor in her face at that moment. He follows her finger to where she’s pointing, and immediately sees the cause of her sudden foul mood.

Gunners. A group of three, about 500 yards ahead. Their presence is a sudden and unpleasant reminder that though he’d finally managed to leave, they were still out there and he’d still be running into them frequently. Thankfully, none of them are in power armor, but two of them have combat armor, the remaining one favoring some old worn military fatigues. Each of them carry a pistol, and one also has a shotgun, another wielding a tire iron. They’re far enough out that they hadn’t yet been noticed, incredibly lucky due to the glinting of the sun off their weapons and armor. 

Mickey motions quietly towards an upended bus a few feet to the right. If they could climb through it up to the still-standing portion of the collapsed old overpass, he’d be have a perfect vantage point to pick them off. Nodding silently, he gestures to her. _After you_ , he thinks. If there are any ferals holed up in there, she’ll have a better chance to take them out using her multiple melee weapons while hopefully being quiet enough to not tip off their quarry.

Luckily, the bus is empty, and they are able to clamber past the seats up to the crumbling overpass, picking their way through the decaying asphalt until they’ve found the ideal spot. The Gunners hadn’t gotten far, stumbling through the wreckage of the city. Mac lays down on his stomach and looks through the sights of his rifle. With the enhanced vision, he can make out the red plastic of jet inhalers in their hands. _Looks like someone’s trying to step out for a chem break._ That makes things easier, like shooting fish in a barrel. Drugged fish. He looks back at Mickey, leaning back against another old rusted out car, taking a long slow pull on a cigarette. She waves the hand holding the smoke at him idly, exhaling a cloud lazily through quirked lips. He can tell from her languid pose that she’s planning to sit this one out. Figures.

He decides to get it over with, and puts his eye back to the sights, slowly inhaling once before exhaling and inhaling again, finding the best angle, and then… three quick shots, the slightest of movements between each. There. Easy as pie… or, well. Easier than pie. He’d never _actually_ met someone who’d managed to get one of the enticingly perfect pie slices out of the vending machines that littered the Commonwealth. Dirty work over, he pushes his body back up into a crouch, blowing air quickly through his nose in surprise as Mickey slings an arm around his shoulder, sticks her half-spent cigarette in his slightly open mouth, and drops her pack to the ground next to him with a thud. She smiles crookedly, and he gets the idea that this was some sort of test. 

“I’m going to check them for loot. You stay here and cover me in case there’s anyone else, then we'll go through it, I take some, you take some, we sell whatever we don't want, sound kosher?” He nods, dumbly, fumbling to pull the cigarette out of his mouth. “Best not waste that dart, kiddo. Watch my back, and don’t get distracted by my great ass.” He feels himself flush slightly, what the hell?

Mickey slides her way down the top of the bus, arms held out to her sides at an attempt at balancing, skidding along on her heels for a bit before skipping along in quick, tiny steps for a few feet before somehow coming to a stop at the end of the bus. Mac’s not really sure how she doesn’t fall on her (self-proclaimed, alright) great ass, honestly. She drops down, landing almost softly in the dirt of a pothole and darting from cover to cover, sneaking her way to the corpses. It’s kind of funny to watch her shimmy through the decimated wreckage and debris scattered across the city. 

She finally reaches the bodies, and she swears he sees her rub her gloved hands together in morbid glee before she swiftly and clinically rifles through their clothes, pocketing handfuls of loot occasionally. She doesn’t even bother to go through their packs, just grabbing the entire bag off of each corpse and slinging them over her shoulders with an odd sort of grace. She picks up each of their pistols, emptying the chambers and dropping the bullets in her pockets before shoving the pistols in one of the packs. She grabs the shotgun off the final corpse, turning around to head back before stopping and tilting her head slightly, looking pensive. She crouches, fiddling around with something he can’t quite see from this angle before doing a little victory dance. She squats back down again, working more quickly, with determination. When she stands back up, she’s holding the Gunner’s boots, shoelaces tied together in a makeshift handle. She pauses once more to pluck a pair of beaten up sunglasses off the face of one of the bodies, plopping them down on her own face and grinning crookedly. The split in her lip pulls again, trickling a small trail of blood down her chin. It’s almost ghastly. 

MacCready watches her scurry her way back up to the overpass. She waves the boots at him excitedly, words failing her for a moment as she gestures wildly in delight before flopping herself down on the dilapidated curb and wrestling with her own beaten mismatched combat boots. He notices one is barely being held together with a truly remarkable amount of duct tape, while the other one had been scuffed so many times at the tip that the off-white of her stained sock was almost showing through. 

“You have no idea how hard it is to find shoes in my size these days. Eight and a half used to be a fairly popular size, but you irradiated fucks must be malnourished to hell, since you _all! Have! Tiny! Feet!_ ” Her last four words are punctuated by a tug at her left boot, which is quite stubbornly refusing to come off her foot. When it finally does, it pulls her sock almost off of her foot along with it. She frowns at it before slipping the sock back where it’s supposed to be, and chucking the boot off the side of the overpass, where it lands with a loud _thwack!_ “And even better,” she claps her hands like a little kid, “matching set!!! Gee fuckin’ whizz, It’s almost like the old times again.” The other boot goes flying off the overpass, finding its new home somewhere on the street below. She yanks the new pair of boots on, and wiggles her toes, grinning in a way that’s almost predatorial. “The one nice thing about living in an apocalyptic shithole and stealing shoes off of dead people is, hey, I’ll probably never have to break in an article of clothing, like… ever again.” This makes her laugh. He cracks an uncomfortable smile.

He’s starting to think he can’t wait to get to Goodneighbor.

“So, what’s in the bags?” 

“Not sure yet! Wanna go through ‘em?” Mickey lurches forward to grab the closest pack without getting up, sprawling on the sidewalk to pull it back towards her. He still can’t mesh this bizarre woman with the larger-than-life picture Travis Miles had painted of the Amazing Vault Dweller. He wonders idly if the DJ had ever actually laid eyes on Mickey Cochran. 

He decides the answer is probably a hard no.

***

Mickey is absolutely tickled with her new footwear. This pair has something close to what they used to call arch support, which is a fucking _miracle_ , and best of all, they match. Truly. A miracle.

Also _super_ cool is that her new buddy? Appears to be some sort of sharpshooter eagle-eye. Nifty.

Alright. Time to get down to business. She grunts a bit as she hoists the first pack over. In, you know, an entirely elegant way. She opens it up, pulling out the three pistols she’d stuck in earlier. Nothing special there, but maybe something she could use to try and squeeze some caps out of KL-E-0. Under that were some boxes. Various ammo, a small pouch of caps, a few stimpaks and other chems, cans of purified water. Medical equipment, must have been the group’s medbag.

She sets the contents of the first bag aside, sorting them into a few loose piles: chems and water in one, ammo in another, various junk in its own. The next bag also has caps and a few boxes of bullets. This one includes a couple of Dandy Boy Apples, a few packages of Fancy Lads, some warm bottles of Nuka Cola, and some other food items. She snags a box of Fancy Lads- she remembers the former Gunner had liked them- and a couple cans of water before picking through the third pack, which seemed to be a kind of catch-all scavenger bag. 

Mickey finishes sorting the piles, stores them appropriately and picks up the Fancy Lads, walking over to where MacCready is looking over the edge of the overpass pensively. 

“Lunch time, kiddo. Sit your scrawny ass down, we’re having a talk.” 

“Thought I asked you to stop calling me that.”

“Mac.” She runs a hand up the shaved side of her head, sighing. “I’m old enough to be your great-great-great grandma’s great-great-great grandma. I’m gonna keep calling you kid.” MacCready looks a little shocked. “What, DJ on DCR never mentioned that part?” He shakes his head slightly, looking at her in what might be awe. 

“Yeah, my… family and I. We were accepted into a vault north of the city back before the war. Surprise! They turned us into popsicles, and 200 some years later, I’m the only one lucky enough to thaw out without… let’s call it _freezerburn._ But enough about that, it’s literally ancient history.” She throws the box of snack cakes at him, smirking when it catches him slightly off-guard. 

“Time to eat, _kid._ ”

This is gonna be a good talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright lads, got some good news, and some bad news. 
> 
> First bit of good news: I got a new job! A real, adult job! With insurance! And dress pants! And a weird thing about allowing Converse shoes but only _red_ Converse! And a coffee machine in a break room! I'm so adult now! 
> 
> That brings us to the less great news. I'm going to be working quite a bit for the next while, and I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write. There's only one more chapter, and I'll try to get it up as soon as I can, but I'm not sure when that'll be. Bear with me, ladies, gents and nonbinary friends, we're drawing to a close.


	7. Foggy Reflections, Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, but also a beginning.

Goodneighbor’s entrance looks exactly the same, minus of course, the presence of anyone at the gate offering “protection.” She’d taken care of that little problem the first time she’d come limping through the door… it appears she’d made a lasting impression to dissuade anyone else from trying the same. Folks just don’t know how to greet visitors to town anymore. Mickey shifts the pack on her shoulder, remembering. 

She’d all but dragged herself through the gate, soaked in blood both hers and not, and promptly run into the late and greatly ambitious corpse formerly known as Finn. He tried to shake her down, she hadn’t been having it. He tried to steal her gun, she decided it was only fair she hand over the contents of said gun. He hadn’t really expected that, and she surprised him. Asshole had taken a polite step back out of her personal space, then done the right thing and promptly died before wasting any more time. Probably the nicest thing he’d ever done for a lady.

She’d been a little surprised to see an Assaultron standing outside a nearby shop, clapping and saying something snarky about the neighborhood going downhill. Even more surprising had been the approach of the ghoul wearing what she’d been pretty sure was a costume from a historical reenactment, or maybe she was just hallucinating? He’d laughed raucously, congratulated her on the Diamond City-sized balls, and welcomed her to Goodneighbor. After a bumbling introduction to the existence of non-feral ghouls, a fair share of embarrassment, and a wild night of college-era-tier binge drinking, Mickey had found herself a new pal, and a new place to take a load off. Sure, the second-in-command hadn’t quite warmed up to her yet, but she’d hit it off with Hancock almost immediately. Mickey was determined to on Fahrenheit’s good side. If nothing else, she’d eventually wear her down with enough doses of her… charming personality. The fact that she’d started supplementing her visits with a gift of jet and mentats every time she stopped by couldn’t be hurting, either. 

“Mac! We’re here!” Mickey takes a quick glance at the kid, trying to gauge his reaction. “Good ol’ Goodneighbor, filthiest and friendliest corner of the Commonwealth. You ever been?” MacCready looks at the flashing of the Kill Or Be Killed sign, eyeing the Assaultron behind the counter warily. 

“Yeah, once or twice,” he mutters. “Last time I was here, that da-darned KL-E-0 cheated me out of half my caps.” 

“Kiss ‘em goodbye, buddy boy. Once she gets her hooks into something, it’s best to just let it go.”

She notices him brighten visibly as he spots Daisy, wheeling a cart of various boxes back behind the counter of her shop. 

“Daisy, babe! Just the ghoul I’m looking to see!” Mickey blinks, slightly surprised to hear such a confident tone come out of her companion. Up ‘til now, he’d been silent, unless he was whining. She could almost believe his claims of being an adult

The two walk over to Daisy’s Discounts, slinging their full packs to the ground. Mickey gives a little wave as she sorts through her loot. 

“Well, if it isn’t Greedy MacCready. How’ve you been, you crazy little rat?” Daisy’s tone is playful, like an aunt picking on a favorite nephew. Her eyes crinkle up in a smile, her mouth quirking into a grin. “Seems like forever since I’ve had the pleasure. Should I expect to be sending out a message with my next caravan to the Capital Waste?”

“Would you? I’ve got some loot to sell you, you can send the caps along, too.” 

Mickey lifts an eyebrow at this. Goodneighbor seems to be bringing out a whole separate side of the kid. She almost feels comfortable leaving him here on his own. After pulling a select few items out of her pack and tucking them into a smaller pouch on her side, Mickey puts her pack behind the counter.

“I’m trusting you, Daisy. Old-timer to old-timer. I’ve got some errands to run in town; pick out what you want and we can—” she makes a little hand-wavey gesture ” —haggle when I get back,” she winks salaciously. “You know I love to haggle with you—Mac, bucko, you can head on down to the Third Rail when you’re down here, I’ll meet you there in a while.”

***

MacCready watches her go, then turns back to Daisy. “What do you know about her?”

“Mickey?” she looks thoughtful. “Nice girl. Pre-war. She and her family got frozen up like a damn ice cube.” She takes a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. “Lost everything, everyone. Kind of makes me wonder… would it be better or worse for it to happen all at once like that? Like ripping off a bandage.” Daisy huffed out a cynical laugh in that gravelly voice all ghouls had. “Probably not, she was really… in a bad way the first time she came through here. Lost, like. She tell you what she’s doing out there?”

Mac shakes his head. She hadn’t really shared anything about herself, but this new information makes some sense. Her comments about “you people” sound less like some snooty bitch from Diamond City with some context. Her hoarding habit makes a bit more sense too; maybe she’s nostalgic? “Nah. Boss didn’t seem too inclined to share much, figured she was some uppity green jewel broad with a thing for picking up useless shi—er, junk.” He removes his cap, pushing back his hair before replacing it. “Makes sense, though. She’s a weird one. So, what _is_ she doing out here?”

Daisy looks sad for a moment. “She’s looking for something. Someone. Probably not my place to share, but she’s been picking up favors from lots of the big players in town… you know she’s with the Brotherhood?” Mac feels his eyebrows raise a bit in, involuntarily. He whistles, low. “I know what you’re thinking, but she’s been nothing but friendly to all of our… no longer human townsfolk. Since the minute she got here. Well… mostly. Pity about Finn, but he got what was coming to him, and our mutual best friend impressed Hancock.” Daisy chuckles good-naturedly at that. “Poor thing. Crawls into town looking like a cat come dragging itself out from under a Mutie’s blood sac, and the first person she meets tries to threaten her out of all her caps. She blew that boy away before he could even finish his spiel. Just about keeled over after that, before Good Ol’ Mayor Hancock took her on a tour of the town and helped her unwind.”

“I’d say,” Mac says. “Doesn’t seem to follow the rules very much.” 

“I heard she _makes_ the rules—some of them at least. Came wandering in here one day with one of those nice young men from the Minutemen hauling all her junk for her, nice as you please. Called her General.”

MacCready hummed in agreement. “When I uh… fell in with her. I sorta picked up on that. Left some purified water and an invitation to join on a passed out Gunner. Fu—er—fricker probably don’t even know how to read. 

“Say, Daisy,” he begins, unsure of how to bring up the subject of his current unemployment. “Mickey uh, she helped me out a little bit. Like, _out_. I’m done with the Gunners now.” He swallows. “If you know of anyone looking to hire on a merc, send them my way, wouldja? Mickey said she’s gonna try to ask Hancock to help set me up around here.” 

“Hey kid, congrats! Of course I’ll try to give you a hand. I know how hard you’re trying for that little boy of yours.” She pauses, looks a little concerned. “They’re a hard group to get out of. How’d you manage?” 

“Thanks, Daisy. I owe you one… or a few. You might wanna sit down, this one’s a wild story.”

***

Mickey bounds up the stairs, high fiving a couple of the Neighborhood Watch, and sticking her tongue out at the one who scowls at her. She rummages around in her pocket and pulls out a pack of bubblegum and some gum drops, lobbing them over her shoulder at the other two.

“No sweets for Sourpuss, here, but if you act a lil’ nicer next time, Auntie Mickey’ll bring you a lil’ something, too.” 

“What, you think just because you’ve got the Mayor wrapped around your finger, we all got to act happy to see you ever time you come around? Piss off, lady.”

“Hey, fuckhead. That’s no way to talk to your sweet, kind, darling Aunt Mickey,” she flips him off and heads toward Hancock’s room, knocking on the doorframe.  
“Knock knock, Mister Mayor!” She nods to Fahrenheit, who raises an eyebrow and a hand, prepared to catch. Mickey tosses the Jet canister to her, with a mock frown. “Hey now, you. That’s fucking extortion, s’what that is. Oughta bring it up to the mayor, have you put on fuckin’ trial.” The other woman just holds up the other hand, quirking her lips slightly. Bingo. Patented Michalina Zdunowski charm, felling yet another mark. “You dirty rotten minx! Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal. Don’t do ‘em all at once.” She passes Fahrenheit the box of mentats, grinning. She’d win this lady over yet. 

“Well well, if it ain’t my own favorite ice-box special. Cochran, to what do I owe the honor?” The mayor himself turns around from where he’d been looking out the window, rolling his frock sleeve back down, and tossing aside a half-used syringe of Med-X. 

“’Fraid I’m not here on pleasure, Hancock, got a favor to ask,” she furrows her brows a bit, just for a second. “Not really what I’d planned to be spending it on, but… what can you do? Life goes on, shit or shine. So. Down to business. I’ve got a new friend I dragged into town; Daisy knows him. MacCready? Sniper, just a kid, barely bigger than his rifle. You know him?”

“Yeah, I know RJ. Runs with the Gunners, doesn’t he? I’m not one to turn away anyone, but those assholes are asking for trouble.”

“Mac’s not with them anymore; I’ve, uh. Terminated their contract, so to speak. He’s trying to clean up his act, go solo even, maybe. Merc for hire. You got anywhere he could stay for a while? Help him get on his feet? He owes me a favor, and I’ve gotta know where to find him when I come to collect. I’d be willing to lay down a few caps, if you need.”

Hancock thinks for a second, gnarled hand on his chin. “S’pose we could find him a room at the Rex for a while, if it means I can guarantee you’ll stop back into town. How’d you get him out of the Gunners?”

Mickey grins, and pops open the top of an unfortunately room temperature Gwinnet, tossing the cap at Hancock. She’d really have to think about finding that robot Rufus had asked her about. “Take a seat, Mister Mayor. Had quite an adventure these last few days.”

***

When MacCready finally sees Mickey come down the stairs at the Third Rail, he’s been there a while. From the slight droop of her shoulders and the loose way her hips swing when she walks, he wonders if she hasn’t been there a while, too.

“Mac! There you are, buddy,” she crows, a little too loudly. When she gets close enough he can see that one of her eyelids is drooping slightly lower than the other, and her pupils are blown wide. From the glaze in her eyes and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, he’s going to guess Jet. Med-X, maybe? She throws an arm around him, and tosses a bundle of caps on the counter. He catches a whiff of her breath. Whiskey. 

“Chaaaarles, yoo-hoo! Hey, fetch me a bottle, babe. Whiskey, got any SoCo? Please? For your favorite gal?” 

The mechanical bartender plunks a glass and a dusty bottle down in front of her, whisking away the caps. “Drink up and shut up, you obnoxious, _insufferable_ lush.”

“Love you Charlie!” Mickey blows the Mister Handy a kiss. “Mac, okay. Good news. Also, RJ? What kind of name is _RJ_?” He opens his mouth to protest, but she puts her fingers to her lips, shushing him before putting the other hand’s fingers to his, mirroring. “Shhhh… not important. You all have stupid names these days, you crazy kids, you. It’s okay… shhhh… it’s okay. I’ve got.. I’ve got news.” She removes her fingers from his lips in order to pour some of the whiskey in her glass. The flower tattoo on her hand warps a bit as she wraps it around the glass, looking almost like the wind is blowing it’s petals. 

“I talked to Hancock. The Mayor. Mayor Hancock, you know? We hung out for a while, we’re… _buds_.” She changes her tone to emphasize the word, and laughs at it a bit, snorting. MacCready doesn’t get the joke, frowns a little bit. “We worked out a living situation for you.” She digs around in the pocket she has stashed on her calf, and pulls out an old key, part of it shiny from wear. “Got you a room at the Rexford. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you. S’free of charge, don’t worry about it. Just, if the mayor asks you to do something, you fuckin’ do it, and don’t complain.”

Mac takes the key, a little dumbfounded. “A room at the Rex… wow, Mickey, I uh. I can’t take this. I—“ he’s cut off by her tattooed hand again.

“Shh… what’d I say, Mac… RJ… still a dumb name. Trust your Aunt Mickey, I got you, okay? Just, take the key, there’s a good kid. I’m gonna call in a favor someday, yeah? I won’t make you do anything you aren’t up for, but I gotta make sure I can find you when I need you, so don’t go wandering off somewhere.” She sets her glass back on the bar—“Keep an eye on that, will you?” –and saunters off to the other side of the bar, surprisingly coordinated. “Magnolia… babe, how long’s it been?” He watches her shamelessly flirt with the bar’s star singer, both of them laughing openly, and plays with the key to his new living quarters. He doesn’t like knowing he owes anyone anything, but he thinks she might not be the worst person in the Wastes to be indebted to, or involved with for that matter. He’s not sure what to think of her, but as he watches her drunkenly try to dance with Magnolia on top of a table, he thinks she just might be okay.

And thanks to her, he thinks he just might end up okay, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowza, I'm finally done with a multi-chapter fic. Thanks, those of you who stuck with me. Sorry I'm so sporadic at updating. The next one, I'm going to do my best to like, you know, actually write out some of the story before I post one of the chapters. Good luck to me for that. Anyway, this ends _A Way Out_ , onto more adventures! See you all there.


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